Romance. Space Opera. Something furry.

You just never know where I’ll end up, and I like it. This morning I was listening to a podcast while I day-jobbed, about writing. Of course. There’s this whole other world out there of writers, and podcasts, and talk radio, and theory and technique.

Then, there’s me. Over here. In the corner. Writing away.

Don’t get me wrong. I envy those authors just a bit because they have a handle on the whole thing. They get the respect, and no doubt about it. I’m sure they love what they do. Yet, so do I.

Sometimes, I don’t like trying to sell the books, but I love writing them. It makes me ridiculously happy, keeps me sane, has possibly saved a life or two along the way.

So I ask myself this afternoon, “Self, why do you consistently compare yourself to other writers?” My self answered, “Because you let me.”

I don’t actively discuss the symbolism of the cat in chapter three because there really isn’t one.  I like cats. You will probably see them periodically. Although it’s pretty clear to everyone who knows me that splosions coincide almost directly with mood. Every. Time. That is about the extent of my subtext.

And, that’s okay.  Because, this makes me happy:

“Aricka,” he said. “I heard you were docked here this week.”

She cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine that’s the talk of the town around Prime. We’re not here that long.”

He looked away a second. “You’d be surprised. You guys, give us a minute.”

His escorts strolled a few steps away.

“It’s been a long time, Ari.”

“You asked your team to leave to say that?”

“No, I asked them to leave so I can do this.” He grabbed her elbow, steering her quickly into an alley between buildings where he pushed her back to the smooth exterior wall and kissed her.

That’s my pay off.

It was Maya Angelou who said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”  I don’t know if her context there was writing, but it fits.

Our homework today, class, is to just accept what makes us happy. Dignity is overrated.